Good {hard, frustrating, exhausting, messy} Works

For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do. Ephesians 2:10

This summer is just...different.

So far it’s noticeably cooler, today being no exception. I happen to love mid-70’s with a breeze so I’m thrilled, but the kids aren’t as excited about freezing to death during swimming lessons.

And the house is much quieter these days. One of the neighborhood kids moved away at the end of the school year, and although she’s less than a mile away, we haven’t seen her since. Another kid grew up a lot this past year and is on to bigger but not always better things. I’ve had to be more intentional about reaching out to the the kids who used to occasionally wander over on their own.

I don’t know that I realized the good works for what they were until they didn’t start happening as easily anymore. Until I had to work a little harder for opportunities and track down missing kids at different houses like I look for pacifiers under couches.

As much as I loved having those kids around all the time, they made for a lot of work. Because, you see, good works are often hard works and messy works and uncomfortable works at times, and those things tend to piss off an already stressed and overwhelmed momma. Just a little bit.

There was dirty shoes on the carpet and cursing in the kitchen. There were broken decorations and trampled belongings as their teenage feet bounded around the house. There were mature conversations to be confronted, again, due to the presence of little ears. There was fighting and name calling and punching and figuring out how to talk about things instead. Encouraging one another and talking about Jesus and our day at the dinner table.

But when you put a bunch of sinful people in a little house together, when you squeeze them all around a table like a pack of hotdogs, you’re bound to annoy and frustrate each other. Relationships are where you do the messy, uncomfortable work of loving, stretching, growing, compromising, forgiving, and offering grace, again. And again. Doing good works is hard work and it will inevitably piss you off, but I’m convinced now that’s how you know you’re doing it right.*

There were a million annoyances; there was abundant chaos, and yet, so much richness. So much love and acceptance, trust and truth. And these days when we have quiet afternoons (by “quiet,” I mean still probably louder than 99% of other houses, because 5 kids) of reading and crafts and movies and I can hear the trees dancing outside in the summer breeze, I find myself missing it and hoping they’d walk through the front door.**

We tend to think that if we’re “doing God’s will,” participating in the work He has for us while we’re here, that it will be easy. That the road will be free of bumps and curves and we won’t stumble as the doors open wide ahead of us. But I’ve found just the opposite to be true. That death is unavoidably tethered to new life like winter comes before spring and the sunshine after the rain.

It’s God’s plan of redemption, of making all things new, of grace. It’s the way to a life that is rich and deep and exhausting and fulfilling in a way that a sterile, safe, comfortable life never could be, for it’s found in laying it down.
 

*Would you like to partner with us as we love, serve, and share Jesus with those who are vulnerable and hurting in Cleveland? We’d love for you to walk this journey alongside us. Find out more HERE.

**Y’all, as I tapped out the final words of that sentence on my dusty keyboard, I heard the telltale knock of the neighborhood kids at our front door for the first time in almost two months. No joke. God is busy answering prayers before we’re even aware of our need or have the wherewithal to utter them from our lips. Never doubt that.

Walking in Humility: Ministry is Messy...and It's Supposed to Be

{This post was originally published on September 23, 2016}

Between the not-quite-housetrained puppy, the 7 month old baby, who still spits up, and the random 10+ children who are in and out of the house on any given day, our carpet is, in a word...GROSS.

Even still, we try to do what we can to keep it from getting worse. We take the dog outside often, wipe up accidents/spills as best as we can, and encourage everyone to take their shoes off at the front door. In typical kid fashion, though, they're forgetful and don't always remove their shoes. Other times, they just plain don't want to listen. Because it's inconvenient, or they think they know better. Rules can be hard and stupid. So along with "buckle your seatbelt," "pick up your garbage," "dirty clothes go in the basket," and "don't fart on your brother," I've added "take off your shoes" to the soundtrack that plays on "repeat all" in our home. 

It will come as no surprise, then, that one day we discovered someone had dog poop on the bottom of their shoe. Unfortunately, that shoe had already made its way around most of the first floor, particularly the carpeted area. The kids were disgusted and screaming, the little boy felt terrible and was crying, and Ben, of course, was in disaster mode and calmly doling out instructions to everyone. He functions much better in a crisis than I.

"It's ok. It's not a big deal," he said to the little boy. "We can clean it up. Why don't you give me your shoe and I'll wash it off in the bathroom."

I took a kid into the living room with me and we started on the carpet. The little boy was sitting at the table with his sister, just sobbing, and both Ben and I kept assuring him it was ok. I can only assume he must get in a lot of trouble at home for making a mess.

The child who was helping me was indignant. He was mad that the boy didn't take off his shoes, mad that he didn't notice the poop sooner, mad that he had to help clean it up--and he kept loudly voicing his grievances. For as often as he wears his own shoes into the house, it could've just as easily been him who tracked in poop, and I encouraged him to be gracious.

I have to admit, I was frustrated, too, but trying really hard to maintain a poker face. This is why we tell them to take off their shoes, I thought. We have rules for a reason. I gently reminded the crowd of that fact and went back to cleaning the carpet. And as I was kneeling there, scrubbing the filth away, my husband quietly said to me, probably sensing my irritation, "this is the cost of doing ministry, babe. It's ok. It's just carpet."

See what I mean about calm under pressure? But I knew he was right. This is the cost of doing ministry. 

You see, ministry is messy...and it's supposed to be.

It's supposed to be difficult, frustrating, annoying, and even loathsome at times. Ministry isn't heart-eye emojis and feel good music and the, "we're all doing fine," business. Because the reality is, we're not all fine, and certainly not all the time.  

Ministry is being "Christ with skin on." That's how my husband describes it, anyways. 

It's easy to think, and I've certainly been guilty of this myself, that "ministry" is a rosy, glorious, wonderful thing. Like we're going to take all these lost people in our neighborhood or workplace and we're going to listen to them, we're going to feed them, we're going to tell them how much Jesus loves them, and wouldn't that be just grand. Maybe they'll start coming to church with us on Sundays, and if we're really lucky, we might even be able squeak out a sinner's prayer. And then we can check them off our list. Mission accomplished. Job well done, good and faithful servant.

But if you sit with that phrase for a spell and dig in to what that really means, I believe you will find this: while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. {Romans 5:8}

Ministry, in the truest form of the word, is entering into the mess and filth of broken lives and loving well enough to stand in the gap between them and God. It's the privilege of being able to stay, with arms outstretched, that it's okay. Regardless of the mess they find themselves in right now, they are loved. They are wanted, valuable, and important. Not in spite of themselves, but because of Christ, who died for them. In their place. And there's nothing more they need to do, because it is finished. 

It's the gospel in the flesh.

True ministry exists in the gap between sinner and Savior. We must be willing to enter into the mess, to kneel down alongside them in the filth and start scrubbing. In order to become Christ with skin on, we need to hang our desires, our possessions, our control, and our pride up on the cross and let them die.

The carpet cleaner washed the dirt away, and the stains were barely visible by the time we were done. It was like it never happened. The little boy finally calmed down and realized he wasn't in trouble, that everything really was okay, and they all went back to running and playing as usual.

Only in the paradox of Christ is it possible that out of death flows new life and from surrender, victory. That he who loses his life will save it. The gap in between death and resurrection is a holy one--it's where God does His best work. 

Every time I give a gentle reminder, change a poopy diaper, scrape gum off the basement floor, scrub dog dirt from the carpet, shuttle a child to the doctor, or help a teen sort out a tricky relationship issue, I'm standing in the gap. A witness to impending new life, both in my heart and in those around me. That's ministry, in all it's messy glory. 

And God is glorified in this holy obedience to the ordinary. 

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This post is part of a series I’m writing for the month of October called, Walking in Humility: Learning to Abide with God in the Everyday. If you’re interested in the reading the rest of the series, you can find it here. Enjoy!